


Maybe it wasn’t the same after all

by SHINKANSENHEAD



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Not A Fix-It, Pain, Past Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHINKANSENHEAD/pseuds/SHINKANSENHEAD
Summary: He’s on the floor. He’s kneeling. His body was shaking uncontrollably. His lungs felt like burning.“What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice. Whoever you are in the past, the Winter Soldier, that cranky shit is not James Buchanan Barnes.”He could hear the man say it, even though it was distant and muffled. He could feel his arms gently wrapped around his shoulder, felt the soothing movement in his back.“You’re James Buchanan Barnes.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	Maybe it wasn’t the same after all

**Author's Note:**

> I made this piece back in 2020 when I was feeling absolutely out of my mind. I tried to continue it and to make it as similar to the preview, but it's just, I don't know, it wasn't working out (re: I am too lazy). So there you have it: proof of my crumbling sanity from August 2020 because they decide to postpone The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.
> 
> Don't forget to stream them later on March 19. Happy Valentine's.

The thing about the future is, Bucky still hadn’t fully accustomed to it.

When he first snapped out of his programming and went undercover in Budapest, he had expected it to have flying cars just like the one he saw on Coney Island back in 1945. He expected weird-looking buildings that went all the way past the atmosphere. He expected time machines and robots all around the place. He had expected a lot of amazing stuff.

Turns out, it doesn’t really have  _ that _ much amazing stuff.

So, sure, sure. There was a lot of new stuff in this century. There were quinjets, helicarriers, the internet (so helpful), and time machines too, but he didn’t expect it to be used when the world is on the verge of destruction because an angry, purple, bald man wanted to wipe half of the population in the universe.

To put it simply, Bucky had a different idea about it.

The only thing close to the image he had of the future was Wakanda, but Bucky wasn’t in Wakanda anymore. He’s staying in Brooklyn, sharing the place with the Falcon after the whole fiasco. He figured that it was the only right thing to do since he saw Steve pass Captain America’s mantle to Sam. It was a sudden feeling that he didn’t understand, but Bucky felt something when he saw Sam holding the shield. It was as if there’s something that tells him to  _ stay _ . He knew that their relationship wasn’t exactly close, to begin with. It might even be filled with a lot of awful memories especially because Bucky was partially responsible for the fact that Sam was locked up in a maximum-security raft under God-knows-where ocean. It was only fair if Sam held a grudge for him, but Sam didn’t look like he disliked the idea. Instead, he smiled at him. That wide grin of his made Bucky felt warm all over.

_ “Thanks,”  _ Sam had said.

Shuri had told him that he’s more than welcome to visit them in Wakanda. Just give her a ring and there will be a quinjet waiting in front of their place. He never actually asked for that, though, opting to stay with Sam and help him with Captain America’s duties. Bucky knows that Sam is a fully functional adult (more than him) that doesn’t require any protection from anyone, but he also knows how hard it is sometimes with having almost 7.8 billion looking up to you and expecting  _ something _ . He knows how hard it is to be  _ Captain America _ . He’d seen Steve, how he acted in front of the public with his smile and shield gleaming under the bright sunlight. He’d seen Steve, how his shoulder slumped when he thought that no one seemed to be looking at him.

He doesn’t know if it was guilt or just the need to return the favor that drives him to do it, but Bucky just feels like it was the right thing to do.

After all, Sam would appreciate it, right?

Well, maybe he’s wrong.

They were sitting face to face in their kitchen, eating shrimp scampi with linguini for dinner. It tasted like a lot of things; like it was too spicy and acidic, but at the same time, it tasted better than all the things he had eaten since he woke up from cryostasis in Wakanda. Don’t get him wrong, he loved all the food he got to taste there. Bucky still remembered the first day when he came out of the ice. Two days later they held a feast for him in the palace with a table filled with Wakandan cuisines and its cultural technicolor. Local ingredients including antelope and ostrich meats, mixed variety of seafood, and shocking spices.

The Wakandans ate all the beautiful dishes. Colorful, fresh vegetables and fruits—grapes, mangoes, papayas, bananas. The unique taste of spices from a very wide range of nuts, bulbs, and leaves. He ate baked beans with curry, pepper, and carrots, pretty yellow cornmeal porridge, and even the sweet and sticky pudding with apricot jam and hot cream sauce.

It was beautiful and all, but this?

This felt more like  _ home _ .

It was then when Sam stopped eating and just stared at his food with uncertainty in his eyes. He looked distracted, like he wanted to say something but he doesn’t know if he should or if he wanted to. It was awfully quiet, not like any other dinner they had. Sam was always a talkative person compared to Bucky. He will always blabber about everything, but he was quiet now. Bucky could only frown as he saw Sam fiddled with his food. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and it quickly brought Sam’s attention. He looked at Bucky with a tinge of uneasiness. He obviously looked like he tried to hide it with a smile.

“Nah, man. Just thinking.”

Bucky stopped eating and placed his fork down. He leaned back to his chair and crossed his arms around his chest. It wasn’t the first time that Sam looked distracted, but he always told Bucky about it. They lived under the same roof, how could they not?

“About what?” He arched his eyebrows, and Sam went quiet for a moment.

“I guess… Do you want to go back to Wakanda?”

It was not the first time Sam had asked about it—whether he missed Wakanda or not. It should be natural, of course. Wakanda has a lot of things that New York doesn't. All the advanced technology and the beautiful landscape. It was a beautiful place. A beautiful place, indeed.

Bucky always assured him that he’s alright with living in Brooklyn with Sam. He liked the man’s company and it wasn’t so bad compared to his place back in the days. Bucky would joke about the times when they had to boil everything because there’s nothing to be eaten, and how he would’ve to work extra shifts in the docks to keep the water running. It was only that time when Sam looked anxious about something that Bucky would talk about everything he remembered back then, and it always works to bring a burst of loud laughter from Sam and a pleased grin which makes Bucky’s stomach fill with butterflies.

But today, Bucky stayed quiet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked. All of a sudden, the food doesn’t taste so good anymore.

Sam jolted in his seat. He looked at Bucky as if he had grown two heads. His eyes bulged in his socket and he looked like he was not sure if he was shocked or offended at that.

“Wait, no—no man! It’s not like that.”

“I can call Shuri.” Bucky hugged himself. There’s the faintest hint of bitterness at the back of his tongue when he looked down to his feet. He felt the tiredness washing him, making his entire body feel limp like wet laundry, and all of the sudden, the memories came rushing back to him. Countless faces smeared in blood and bodies filled with bullets. The feeling of his body jarred with each blow and how pain seared through his skin as they shot him back. He remembered about a metal arm, how its plates shift under his control, how it moves by his nerves. He remembered a car and how the metal arm crashed through the windshield, how it gripped the steering wheel and yanked it away from it. He remembered about a flying man, how the metal arm gripped his wings and tore it from his body. He remembered the man looking at him, and he remembered how he kicked him from the height.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, but sometimes you spaced out whenever you sit on the porch. You look distracted, but you never told me about it. I just… I’m sorry. I thought you miss Wakanda because New York ain’t that cool compared to it.”

“Sam, stop it..”

“Barnes, it’s not—”

_ “Goddamit Wilson, you should hate me!” _

He slammed the table with his metal arm, the wood cracking under his balled fist. The legs broke down and the plates came crashing into the flooring. He felt his flesh arm tremble at that, the tension crept up to his face and limbs. At that moment, he felt a cluster of sparks plunge through his abdomen. He wanted his brain to slow down, wanted the thought to disappear. His breathing became more shallow as his mind started replaying the attack. Him, the Winter Soldier, at the highway. Him, the Winter Soldier at the Helicarrier. Him, the Winter Soldier, inside the frozen chamber. Him, the Winter Soldier, seating on that cold chair. Him, the Winter Soldier.

_ He felt sick. _

“I’m a fucking semi-stable 100 years old man with a vibranium arm. Two dozens assassinations and I remember every single one of them. I probably killed John F. Kennedy,  _ fuck _ , who knows? I slammed on top of your car and pulled your steering wheel when you were fucking driving, Sam. I broke your wings, didn’t I? I pulled you and tore your goddamn wings and kicked you out from what? A  _ flying _ Triskelion. You’re a goddamn vigilante across 20 countries because of  _ me _ and I almost killed you not once, not even  _ twice _ . You should  _ hate _ me!”

The thoughts were rushing inside his head, and he’s too far away, too out of reach. He wanted to breathe, wanted the blaring sirens in his head to stop. He wanted to breathe, but he couldn't. Everything is spinning and it feels as if the ground is melting under his feet. All the air he tried to inhale got stuck in his throat and then everything just came out in short gasps. The room spun and he remembered. All the faces he killed, all the blood on his hand. His heart hammered inside his chest as if it was threatening to break through his ribcage. And he’s breathing too fast. He can’t. He—

“Breathe, Barnes.  _ Breathe _ .”

He’s on the floor. He’s kneeling. His body was shaking uncontrollably. His lungs felt like burning.

“What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice. Whoever you are in the past, the Winter Soldier, that cranky shit is not James Buchanan Barnes.”

He could hear the man say it, even though it was distant and muffled. He could feel his arms gently wrapped around his shoulder, felt the soothing movement in his back.

“You’re James Buchanan Barnes.”

It started so subtly. His nose grew red at the tip and his bottom lip quivered as he tried to control his breath. Gradually, his forehead wrinkled and he felt his eyes burning and his shoulder hunched and he couldn‘t hold it back anymore.

“You’re an ass sometimes, but I don‘t hate you. I never do.”

It always begins with the way his stomach lurch and his heart feels heavy, too heavy. When he finally looked up, he could feel the dam of his eyes begin to crack. Then a single tear slid down from his stormy gray eyes, and another one, and another one. And now his body was wracked with an onslaught sob as the tears kept rolling down his reddening cheeks. It made wet tracks and dripped from the stubbled chin. His eyes were wet, puffy, and there’s clear snot coming from his flaring nostrils and rushing down to his open, quivering lips. And it’s weird. It's so weird. Sam is weird. Bucky wanted to say something, anything, but he can’t.

“It’s okay. It’s alright.”

Of all the reasons to hate him, Sam still looks at him with the warmest eyes.

_ “It’s okay to cry.” _

—

It had become a routine for them, sleeping on the same bed, that is. As to where it started, perhaps it started with the too many sleepless nights Bucky gave them because of the daily scream. Sam never bothered about Bucky stealing his blanket, only questioning why his body temperature always felt way cold, even though he had a super-soldier serum running inside.

_ “That’s why they named me the Winter Soldier.” _

Bucky had joked, but Sam didn’t laugh at that. His face grew stern and he clenched his fist so hard.  _ So hard. _

“I said this once. I’m gonna keep saying this forever.  _ The Winter Soldier is not you _ ,” he said, and he looked so hurt, Bucky just wanted to hug his pain away.

He did.

_ “You’re so much more.” _

Bucky had been careful with his words after that. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam than he already did. He liked being around Sam, liked the days when he didn't force Bucky for a jog, and just pulled him into a tight embrace on their bed. He liked how Sam would hum a sweet lullaby every time he sensed that Bucky couldn’t sleep, liked how sometimes he would talk about his own vulnerability to remind Bucky that his feelings are valid and that he could always overcome it. He likes Sam.

Likes _. Likes? _

Night rolls around and after a time Bucky could feel his eyelids growing heavier. His heart slows into a more peaceful beat, and the bed sure looks tempting. “Do you wanna get to bed?” Sam asks. He was the first one to yawn. His eyes are slightly pink and his shoulder slouched. When he lolls his head and his gaze lands on Bucky’s, the muscles of his face relax. The harsh light from the television accenting his features, making his jaw look more prominent and Bucky feels his face heat up at the sight. Even now, Sam was beautiful. Endearing in his own way.

Bucky nods, and Sam holds out his hand for him. Bucky hesitates for a moment before reaching out to the hand before him. They walk to Bucky’s room—their room, maybe—with their fingers intertwined along the way. Sam settles first, and Bucky doesn’t need any more reasoning before he climbs the bed and joins the man. He has himself backing Sam, which the other didn’t mind at all. Instead, Sam wraps his arms around him like the night before this, and the night before this, and the other night where they first shared the same bed.

Routine, yes.  _ Bucky likes this. _

There are arms around his neck, a leg over his own, a steady breath heaving softly against the side of his face. And Bucky thinks,  _ yes _ , he likes this. He likes the softness, the quiet sense of rest. Time trickles by and his thoughts begin to run slower like a Ferris wheel. Here, underneath the delicate moonlight that seeps from the swaying curtain, sleep hung like a cloud, and peace dwelled and loved every second of it.

_ Wrong _ **.**

It was dark there

He could feel the tiredness in his chest, the tight sensation around his throat he can't really place. And he thinks, he had to wake up. In a moment he will be dragged into the harsh reality. His lungs will burn and his body will be drenched in sweat, but at least he’s awake, right?

_ Wrong _ **.**

It was dark there

He could feel the cuts and bruises on his cheeks. How every inch of his muscles screams. Dried blood on his chapped lips and the tight sensation around his wrist. There's a bullet there, on that loaded gun. He wonders if they would pull the trigger.

It was dark there.

They pulled him, if not from his wrist, then it would be his hair. Then they'll shove the food right into his throat because it seems like watching him cry in a corner is far more amusing than stumbling over his dead body. They’ll throw him back to the corner, and there will always be a ball of hair and the residual pain in his scalp.

It was dark there.

_ He remembers a chair. _

It was dark there.

The grip around his hair grew stronger, tighter. And when his eyes met the cold, blue irises, he could feel its finger pulling his skin apart. Tearing his head open, grasping his sanity, and throwing it away into the gutter.

_ And it was dark here. _

Bucky wakes up. Feels his lungs burning, feels his body drenched in sweat and tears rolling down his cheeks. He scrambles off the bed, not minding how Sam jolts awake by his sudden movement. And he feels cold,  _ way too cold. _

He wraps his arms around himself. When he stands up, he feels his legs wobble and his eyes glassy. His mind is all over the place as he walks towards the bathroom with a tight sensation around his neck—the burning sensation on top of his head never ceases.

“Buck—”

He can’t.  _ He can’t look at Sam _ . He doesn’t even know when exactly he started to cry. And when he opens the bathroom, he stumbles and falls on his knees. He throws up.

“God,  _ Buck. _ ” Sam scrambles to his feet, rushing to the bathroom in the same urgency as Bucky. He cringes when he sees Bucky’s face had turned paler than a sheet of paper and sweat pooling down his temples. He looks pained, hurt,  _ worrisome.  _ As he leans closer to the man’s side, he takes a handful of his long hair, holds it with his hand while his other free hand comes to rub the expanse of his back, moving along to the man’s nape and kneading the stiff muscle.

“It’s fine, it’s alright,” he whispers, and Bucky wraps his fingers around the duvet tighter. Nausea clawed at his throat, and his stomach contracted so violently he feels like he’s out of breath. Bucky’s chest is rising and falling so hard, and he tries to stop. Tries to stop himself from vomiting, crying— _ tried to stop _ .

“You’ll be okay.”

The words were meant to be an assurance, but Bucky cried harder by that.

“How are you feeling?”

The silence embraces their body like a gentle maiden, soothing the once disturbed soul of his. There are lights coming from the window, the wind slipping past through it and kissing their bare skin with a kiss of cold. He has his head on Sam’s shoulder, and his entire muscles like it worth nothing but a pile of puddles. He could feel the feather-like stroke on his shoulder, stopping just for a second before it trails down to the metal part of his arm. They could’ve gone to bed again now, sit underneath the warm cover and the gentle yellow hue of the bed lamp, but Sam chose to stay there. Chose to sit next to a renowned assassin as if his life wasn’t on the very edge.

_ He likes it. _

“Can you cut my hair?”

—

“Not bad.”

He wasn’t planning to say that out loud, but they weren’t exactly living in a crowded place. It didn’t take long until Sam looked back at him with the shield in his hand. The red, blue, and white and how it stared back at him with a strange familiarity. Bucky still hadn’t gotten accustomed to the new owner of the shield, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t approving it. In fact, he thought that it suited him. The shiny metal on his hand suited Sam perfectly.

“Not bad?” Sam raised his eyebrows, a low chuckle forming at the back of his throat as he stared down to the shield before looking back at Bucky. “Man, I literally almost break my fucking arm and you said, not bad?”

Bucky scoffed. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said. Walking down their porch, Bucky clutched at his arm. The gap on the tree was wide and staring at them as Sam handed the shield. Bucky felt the weight of the vibranium on his hand. The shield felt like it barely weighed an ounce as he balanced it on his palm. Bucky glanced at the crooked trees in front of them, then he curled his wrist slightly back towards his body like he was holding a Frisbee. He used his left arm and snapped it open, angling it until the disc was gliding in the air with a rapid speed. It hit right in the gaping tree and crashed right through it, causing both of them to clamber away from it even though it was miles away from them.

“That’s how you do it.”

“Oh,  _ I’m sorry _ . I don’t have a friggin’ metal arm and I definitely don’t have a super-soldier serum running inside my body to break a tree in half.”

Sam raised his hands in defeat, he made an exaggerated expression and acted as if Bucky had said something that offended his entire family tree. He broke into a laugh and bumped the man on the shoulder, his flesh hand coming to give Bucky a high five. He smiled at him and Bucky felt warmth creeping into his skin. Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes never exactly had a good relationship. This kind of gesture is oddly... pleasant.

Sam was picking up the shield from where it landed when a car stopped near their place. A sleek black car with a far too familiar plate. A blonde woman went out with a flat expression. An expression that wasn’t usually the one she wears every time she came to visit them.

“Carter!” Sam greeted the woman with his usual enthusiasm, but Sharon’s face remained flat. Her eyes slightly puffy and there were faint rings of red around him. Her lips pressed tight and she kept her posture straight and rigid.

“It’s Steve,” she said.

“He’s gone in his sleep.”

—

The weight wasn’t unpleasant.

At least, that’s what Bucky thought when he walked down the aisle with the casket on his shoulder. There were lights coming from the tinted glasses, the delicate colors dancing on top of the dark wood. The church smelt sweet and woodsy; like musty pine with a tinge of citrus and unknown spice. It smells like earth and somehow similar to rosemary with a hint of licorice. Bucky didn’t really recognize it, but he likes it.

He never paid attention to the choir. Having been raised as a Jew, the only time he ever heard it was when he waited for Steve to finish his weekly mass on the steps outside the church.  _ What is a choir, but voices raised together to form one sound? _ He used to think of that, but now hearing it clearly for the first time, he felt that there’s something different in it. Their voice was angelic, high notes blossoming across the room, piercing through the high roofs and soaring over the vast blue sky. The notes slipped and settled in the back of his head, coursed through his veins, and dwelled in his heart.

_ It was beautiful. _

From up on the high platform, rest a picture of a hilarious, smug-faced man. His blinding smile was looking far too familiar for someone that had become a stranger in his mind. Before he even realized it, he was back at the same, shitty apartment in downtown Brooklyn. They were lucky that they could pay the rent that month; the archaic wood-chip wallpaper had become tattered and the sink wouldn’t stop leaking. On some lucky days, they could take a bath using actual hot water. On some other days, they had to be grateful for having water in their bathroom.

_ “Happy Birthday, Stevie.” _

_ Bucky heart’s fluttered when his eyes met with Steve’s surprised look. The scrawny kid’s mouth was open wide. Bucky could see how he was trying to form a proper response, only to have it stuck in his throat as he tore the cheap wrapping paper with his nimble fingers. _

_ “It’s…” _

_ It was charcoal, a full set of it. From the deepest black to the pristine white, eleven shades with an extra hand-kneaded eraser, all inside a smooth cedar casing. _

_ “You look like you could use some new set.” _

_ Lies. Bucky had seen Steve eyeing it every time they passed through the art material store. _

_ “Buck, this is… this is amazing, but isn’t this expensive?” There were stars dancing in his eyes, but there were doubts as well. Bucky could see it as clear as the summer sky. _

_ They weren’t rich, no. Not at all. His job at the dock was enough to feed them both, but he had to work thrice harder for the gift alone. Bucky wasn’t going to say that, though. _

_ “If you’re thinking about tomorrow’s dinner, don’t worry, we still had enough money for that. Not sure about the day after tomorrow though,” he chimed, and Steve laughed. He smacked him right on the shoulder, but his laugh was earnest and he smiled so wide, it was the prettiest thing Bucky had ever seen in his life, for it also reached his eyes and delved into the depth of his soul. So vibrant and free. _

_ “Punk.” _

_ “Jerk.” _

_ So vibrant and free. _

“Even when I had nothing, I had Steve.”

It felt strange, the feeling. Steve had been a part of his life since he was just a kid. They grew up together, have been inseparable brothers since day one. Bucky knows Steve as much as Steve knows Bucky. When he woke up hazy and delirious in Azzano, Bucky almost thought that he was in heaven because there’s no way Steve would be there. On the battlefield, looking taller than he actually is without looking like he was dying out of breath.

It felt strange,  _ the feeling. _

Sam stares at him with a longing look. Everyone had parted their ways, had greeted the late Captain their last goodbyes. The wooden pews are absent from any lingering body. The church is empty, and it smells sweet and woodsy; like musty pine with a tinge of citrus and unknown spice. It smells like earth and somehow similar to rosemary with a hint of licorice. 

_ Steve. _

Sam wraps his arms around him. His arms moving to rest on his shoulder, the small of his back, and Bucky exhales a shaky breath he doesn’t realize he had been holding for the longest time. He doesn’t know what to feel, what to do. “Sad” doesn’t cover it up. The day when Steve had left and come back to pass the shield for Sam, he had felt something similar, but this one is different. He feels strange, weird. He feels empty, feels like he was missing something important. He feels like a sailor in the middle of the sea, the gales and storms hitting his sail and tumbling the ship and now he’s drowning, suffocating. The water is closing in and he couldn’t swim with the current. It was red, it was black. All the colors are dancing in front of his eyes and he doesn’t even know whether his eyes are opened or closed. It was more than pain. It was so much more.

_ “Even when I had nothing, I had Steve.”  _ His voice trembled, the air in his throat was cut short. His chest feels tight and he can’t,  _ he just can’t. _

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Sam hugged him tighter, his voice was laced with the same amount of agony and the equal feel of bitterness. And even when Bucky couldn’t see his face, he knew there’s also pain in his eyes.

_ “It’s okay to cry.” _

His voice was raw when he clutched his hand to Sam’s suit. It was Armani, but nobody paid attention as they hugged the sadness away beneath the gentle sun rays.

—

“That’s a long way down,” Bucky had muttered once he got a clear sight of his surroundings. 

It was… high. Rock arose from the ground like it was trying to reach the sky. The pinnacle showered by a thick blanket of snow. There is a hint of green at the base, just a hint. Everything looks more blue and gray and white, and so many white.

“Zemo, that bastard, he really is shit, ain’t he?” Sam huffed a laugh.

Bucky shrugged at that. He tried to focus on the train rail along the side of the mountain. It’s cold. Even the most advanced technology from Wakanda couldn’t stop his arm from hurting a bit. He’s still grateful, though. The old arm was so much worse.

“Come on, suit up.”

Bucky shrugged the cold in his arm, and so it all went down to the same routine again. Same old preparation, same old arguments about  _ “Do you have a plan?” _ and  _ “I have a plan, Buck,” _ and the plan was to jump from the heights without telling him about it so he has to come up with his own plan. The mission was simple, it’s like the 40’s again: get inside the train, kick some bad guys, stop Zemo for once and for all, and go home for 24-hours worth of sleep. Yeah, the mission was simple, it’s like the 40’s again.

Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, make his way in, and knocked some bad guys out but this time he got a fucking metal arm. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, his shots were even more accurate, his punches made everyone pass in one single blow. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, the same thing but this time it’s better, this time nothing is gonna come at him and—

_ “BUCK, GET DOWN!” _

The explosion rang inside his ear like it was trying to deafen his senses. A person in red, blue, and white lied pressed at the side of the cart. There’s a piece of metal painted with the same color that he remembers all too well, there’s a memory in the back of his head that he could barely forget, even when he wanted to.

Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ It’s the same thing all over again; same old place, same old choice. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, he picked up the shield and raised his gun at him because deep down he believed something would change. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ Dodge the first shot and hope whatever God was listening up there to please, please, please, make this time different from the other. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, he’d always be the first to give his life for Captain America. Bucky breathed in,  _ hard.  _ He did the same thing again, to give his life for love.

“Buck what the fuck are yo—”

All at one his foot ceased to travel forwards and the world rushed in a blur and he knew the fucking pain was coming. There wasn’t even an option for him to use his super-enhanced strength to hold on for now. It was just a full-blown blast, a full-blown blast to the shield that straight on hurled him off his standing place. For a full half-minute, he had been going downward at a speed until he could hardly draw any breath, but Bucky didn’t stop for even a fucking second. And the colors in his eyes swirl and blend and he saw a man scream for him. It wasn’t Sam, no, but it sounded like it. The man in front of him had blond locks and gorgeous blue eyes. He screamed on top of his lungs, leaning forward just way too much.

_ “BUCKY!” _

He closed his eyes. It was the same after all.

_ Steve. _

He’s falling, again.

—

They said fate was as cruel as death, which is an understatement because death is forgiving. It was kind. It was omnibenevolent. And fate? Fate has a lot of ways to make your gut lurch; it has a lot of ways to open the wound you had desperately tried to hide.

He thought he was dead. Once, twice. Every time they put him in the freezer and pause his heart, he thought he was going to die. But then he wakes up again, he wakes up and he could feel his body refuse to move. Then they said the words, then everything turned black. Then he woke up, then they’re putting him under the ice again and it all goes blank, again.

Death was kind. Fate? Fate was a son of a bitch.

The hooded vale of death had hung over him for the longest time. The edge of its scythe was always threatening to rip the soul of his tired body, and every time it happened Bucky would close his eyes. And he hoped that it’s going to be over soon because it’s been too long. He thought. It’s been too long.

But it never came to him and it never happened. It hung too low, then it stopped. Then fate will come and say,  _ “Not yet.” _ His voice was filled with hope as he smiled down at Bucky. His fingers were gentle as he stroked at Bucky’s frozen frame. But the soft, loving face never lasted long. Fate has round glasses and a round face. He has a thick German accent and a lot of friends. But his friends were never kind to Bucky, no. They were snickering as they pry his eyes over. The fluorescent light hitting his pupils and he realized that wasn’t fate. That was Zola.

Maybe fate was Zola? Bucky doesn’t know.

It was all cold all over him as he felt the world around him spins. The color in his eyes dances and merges until everything is white. It was white and it was cold, and it feels oddly familiar. The white, the cold, the pain.

And he remembered how it used to be back then. The idea of falling with someone to catch you, the idea of trusting someone only to have it broken. It was painful all over his body. It was painful all over his legs and arms and everywhere, but it was familiar. It was familiar.

Death is familiar.

“Has my time come?” he asked, although he knew he didn’t make a sound. Death closed in with his hollow face. He didn’t say anything, only leaning his scythe close to his face, and Bucky thought it was. The time has come, and for now, he’s sure of it. There’s no Zola around him. He’s safe. He could go.

_ “Not yet.” _

Bucky’s eyes shot open. It didn’t sound like Fate. Or at least, it didn’t sound like Zola. It sounded warm, almost velvety. It didn’t sound like hope and the face looking down at him wasn’t grinning. It was a pair of eyebrows knitted tight, it was dark brown. It was a voice filled with desperation. It was a voice full of longing.

“Barnes, get a hold of yourself!”

Sam.  _ Sam _ .

“Sam?”

Everything was blurry. He blinked once, twice, and it was all hazy. When he woke up the light wasn’t so bright. It was white, but dimmed. There’s a light buzzing sound of someone laughing. Was that Tonight’s Show?

“Shit, you’re awake. I’m gonna get the nurse.”

His eyesight was still blurry when a dark frame abruptly stood up from the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t see their face, but he could feel their fingers gripping his hand ever so slowly. Just the right amount of pressure not to make it hurt, just the right amount of warmth.

“Don’t leave,” Bucky croaked, which Sam only answered with “I’m just gonna get the nurse.”

In an instant, he left. In an instant, he also came back. The doctor checked on him without Bucky knowing what he did. It all feels like floating on a cloud, and all he could say is “Sam.”

“It was a very close call,” he heard the doctor say. “No one should be able to maneuver the wings with a velocity of winds like that, but you did. Mr. Barnes was lucky because you caught him before he reached the bottom.”

“I got you,” he said. Then Bucky feels a light squeeze on his hand.

“What...” it was still blurry.

“I ain’t letting anyone fall again,” he said, then there was the faintest brush of lips on Bucky’s knuckles. “Not anyone, not you.”

Maybe it wasn’t the same after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Tagging is hard.


End file.
